The wooden sword came down for its third swing, and the air trembled faintly. That ringing clang hung in the night like a thread. Chen Wuya's wrist paused slightly, and he did not move again.
He stood in the corner of the courtyard, the sword tip hanging to the ground, but his gaze had already crossed the edge of the bamboo grove and settled deep within the blackened tree shadows. That strange sensation from moments ago had not been an illusion—just as he sheathed his sword and turned back, an exceedingly faint scent had brushed past his nose. It was like the rank smell rising from wet earth crushed underfoot, yet also like the stale odor of iron left to rust for years. It belonged neither here nor to anyone he had ever fought.
Bai Zhi had already returned to her room to rest. The children slept soundly, while Mo Feng leaned against the weapon rack with his eyes closed, his breathing even. The entire courtyard was steeped in the rare tranquility that followed battle. Yet it was precisely this tranquility that made that wisp of scent stand out so sharply.
Chen Wuya gently hung the wooden sword back on the wall. His movements were slow, but his fingertips lingered on the hilt for an unconscious extra moment. He threw on an outer robe, his footsteps silent as they touched the ground, and followed the stone path toward the bamboo grove.
The path through the woods was one he took every morning for training. Bamboo stalks stood straight on both sides at even intervals, usually rustling when the wind blew. But now, the wind had stopped. Bamboo leaves hung still, and even the chirping of insects had grown sparse. Reaching the edge of the grove, he crouched and brushed his